


Found in Translation

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Coming Out, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, F/M, Fingerfucking, Gender Identity, Genderfluid, M/M, Other, Questioning, Transgender, freakin' sex markers, gender non-conforming, get your m's and f's outta my life, how do you even tag a relationship like this, muffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 16:16:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15004625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: A small step in France's journey of self-discovery, made sweet (and smutty) by England.[Trans FrUK.]





	Found in Translation

**Author's Note:**

> I'm definitely not a transfeminine person, so I apologize if any of this comes off as disingenuous. France here is not a transwoman, which is why I used male pronouns. I didn't make him offer any labels within the story itself, but I put 'gender non-conforming' and 'genderfluid' in the tags. Is he those things? Maybe, maybe not. Labels aren't vital, but they are part of language, which is fascinating and helps us connect. So consider them food for thought, I 'spose.

The doorbell rang.

The trepidation that had been rising within France all day rose to fever pitch. He gave himself one last once-over in his full-length mirror. The perfect kitten-heeled shoes, smooth calves, and the most gorgeous dress—pink, not too vibrant, not the pink of toys or candy, but the soft natural hue of a spring blossom. The neckline wasn’t too severe, and the cups were padded, but he’d done a bit of his own padding too. His hair was lovely golden waves, as always, but even more so tonight in contrast with the blush on his cheeks, the mascara on his lashes, the gloss on his lips.

The doorbell rang again.

France took a deep breath, gave his reflection a reassuring smile, and hurried to open the door.

England stood on his front step, handsome as he usually was in formal wear, an irritated twist to his mouth. The first words of his complaint were already on his tongue; France watched him swallow them as his gaze drifted down his lover’s body. England’s eyes widened, at first. Then his brow furrowed. And then—France’s heart skipped a beat—his eyes narrowed.

“Of _course_ ,” he said, “the one day I wear a red tie, you wear pink.”

It took France a moment to process the words, and to realize England was only exasperated, not enraged or disgusted. He could have fallen to his knees in relief, but he didn’t want to scuff his shoes.

“Red doesn’t clash terribly with pink,” he said, as if these were normal circumstances to be discussing fashion.

“No?” England arched a dubious brow. “You’re sure?”

“Not as bad as orange, at least,” France offered, feeling closer to hysterical than he had for years. _He’s asking me if I’m sure about red and pink, but not about THIS?_

England held his tie against the shoulder of France’s dress. “Hmm. I suppose it could be worse. No time to look for one in your cavernous closet, I’m afraid, we have a reservation to catch.”

When the other nation’s fingers brushed his skin, France couldn’t take it anymore. He burst out, “Say something about this.”

England blinked. “About what? The dress? I don’t know anything about dresses. It looks nice on you, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, merci, but—” He struggled for the words. “But—it’s—I’m . . .”

England, for once, said nothing. He just listened, waited.

“It was just . . . a big deal,” he said at last, shoulders slumping a bit.

A pause before England’s response. “I’ve seen you wear dresses before.”

“But not now,” France said, at last getting to the point. “Not now that it’s taboo. It’s dangerous. People don’t like it.”

“I wouldn’t call it a taboo. The stigma is lessening.” England gave a minimal but illustrative flick of the hand. “There will always be ignorant people. Sod them. If you like it, that’s all you should care about.”

A smile bloomed over France’s face. “But I care if you like it, too.”

England’s eyes took their time travelling over him again. “Oh. I like it.” A certain low tone came into his voice. His gaze sought France’s. Very carefully, he asked, “Are you . . . What do I call you?”

Even though it was said in a rather formal, businesslike tone, it made warmth glow from France’s heart. France had loved—and hated—England long enough that he knew the island nation rarely spoke normally. He either said what he didn’t mean with his infamous sarcasm (which did little to cloak his true feelings anyway) or he said what he meant with an indifferent tone (so as to hide the fact that he was being kind). This was the latter, and France wanted to kiss him and tease him for being so stiff, but he knew that would just irritate him, and that was no way to thank him for something France could not be more grateful for.

“Call me France,” he replied, threading their fingers together. “I’m still figuring it all out. I always have been. This isn’t really a secret, is it? This isn’t a surprise?”

England shook his head without needing to consider it. “You haven’t shaved since the eighteenth century. That’s a surprise.”

France was impressed his lover could remember it back to the century; his own memory had become fuzzy around specific dates. He suspected PTSD as well as age was at work, but he’d never spoken about it. No one wanted to talk about that, and he couldn’t begin to blame them.

“Not just my face,” he said, letting his smile curl into a smirk. “Everywhere.”

England’s thick eyebrows rose. “. . . Everywhere?”

“Everywhere.” France lifted England’s hand to kiss the back of it. “Come, mon amour. Let’s not miss our reservation.”

 

_Three Hours Later_

 

The dark house, which had been waiting in patient silence, stirred abruptly: jangling keys in the lock, then the door falling open and two shapes moving through the dark. They were a multi-limbed creature attached at the lips: a leg kicked out to shut the door, an arm reached to flick on the light over the stove. The golden bulb illuminated their path to the bedroom, where the bed was lit in silver from the moon’s face peeking through the window.

“Wait,” France gasped as England straddled him on the mattress. “We can’t yet—I have to—”

England looked down at him, brow furrowed, panting lightly. “Have to what?”

France felt a rather uncharacteristic blush warm his face. “I am . . . tucked.”

England’s expression cleared. He paused, then moved down until he knelt between France’s spread legs. “I can do it for you.”

France was first tempted to decline; he didn’t need England hurting him just to speed up their sex. But then he remembered the rule of England’s speech, and realized these casual, careless words betrayed an immense curiosity for this journey was on, and a deep protectiveness for his old companion.

France sat up, shifting so he could pull his dress over his head. Lacey scarlet lingerie tickled his thighs.

England was motionless, wide eyes devouring his lover. “You—” His voice came out at a thick rasp; he cleared his throat. “You did wear red.”

France smiled, letting his head rest back in the pillows. “Do you like them?”

England touched them as if they might disintegrate. France would have said, _It is a shame to take them off, they won’t be as beautiful without you._ America would have said, _They’ll look even better on the floor._ But England said nothing as he hooked his fingertips beneath the hem and slowly tugged them down France’s legs.

Here was the hidden ugliness behind beauty. France’s lack of distracting bulge under his gown was earned through medical tape. Lots of medical tape, since he hadn’t yet mastered the technique.

England, to his credit, didn’t cringe. His eyes flicked up to France. “That doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“It aches a little after a while. It would hurt if I’d let you go any further.”

“Why—” England stopped, mentally answering his own question. The upward force of an erection fighting the downward force of adhesive. Not a physics equation anyone should have to find the answer to.

“The tape on my legs first,” France said softly.

England set about removing the strips of tape. France was shocked at how swift yet gentle he was, until he recalled that England had spent many formative years tying knots on pirate ships while half-drunk in a rainstorm. Say what you will about the rest of England, but his deft fingers knew what they were doing.

Once freed, Francis’s reddened nethers needed a few moments to rest, so he reached for England. The other nation eagerly returned to their necking, though France noted he resisted the urge to grind his hips downward. France unbuttoned England’s shirt, then unbuckled his belt while England tossed his shirt away. He so easily got carried away with this, even after all these years. France smiled fondly up at him as he pulled down his briefs, letting his erection spring free. Nearly full mast, without even a touch? France made a mental note to invest in some more lingerie.

England kissed his way across France’s smooth chest, from one nipple to the other, groaning softly as he rocked into France’s hand. Last time, this was the point where France’s middle finger got reacquainted with England’s prostate, but this was England’s turn to top. It wasn’t always one after the other; sometimes, without saying a word, England would haul France down on top of him and cling to him until they awoke the following morning, where England would acknowledge how wonderful their fervent love-making had been with only a neutral grunt as he read the morning paper (or, if they were in France, looked at the pictures).

“C’est bon,” France sighed, stroking his free hand through England’s hair. Here came the big question, but after all this, he wasn’t worried. “Angleterre . . . can we try something new?”

England grew still, his tongue swirling over France’s skin one last time before he lifted his head. “I wasn’t aware there was anything left to try.”

France thought back to all the different positions they had tried over the centuries, a blurred movie reel full of flesh with a soundtrack of moans, shouts, slaps, and snatches of dirty talk from England on the rare occasion he felt like having phone sex. France felt a familiar throb between his legs. “They call it muffing. Have you heard of it?”

England shook his head. “No, but it sounds like something you would do. What is it?”

France moved England’s hand between his spread legs, then with his own hand held his balls aside and slowly pushed England’s finger up into what he had learned from the internet was called an inguinal canal. It was the space the testicles lifted up into when they were tucked or too cold, and he was delighted to find it felt lovely for fingers to be inside, too.

England looked surprised, but it was far from the strangest thing they’d done in the bedroom. “This is good?”

France nodded, letting go of his wrist when the other nation took the initiative and began finger-fucking him in earnest. After a few moments, France begged, “Deux doigts,” because everything was better with two fingers. England obliged, though he had to fetch some lube—of which there was never a shortage in France’s house—to truly give his lover what he wanted. France’s toes curled, bunching the blanket, and he closed his eyes, imagining a different self, a female self who had grown up with England, the fiery little brother to a motherly big sister. She wouldn’t have sailed the seas, but she would have been waiting for the pirates to come, a femme fatale, lips crimson with rouge and blood. And now, in the modern day, shaved smooth for her lover, wearing lingerie for him, spread and soaked for him. More submissive, as a woman? Perhaps, in a way. It wasn’t the same, wouldn’t be the same if France decided he liked it better this new way. He thought of his colonies, how would they react? They’d always loved him as a papa, would it be so strange to now love him as a mama?

_Mama France. Mademoiselle la France._

It had a rather nice ring to it.

“France?”

France’s eyes flicked open. England’s hand was hovering over France’s growing arousal, a question in his eyes. France nodded, and England’s hands—France took full credit for teaching those hands this fine sensual art—pleasured him until he was giving the high cries usually drawn from England on those clingy nights. France arched his back and came, but he closed his eyes and imagined the spatter on his thigh was the spurt of a G-spot rather than a prostate. Did the thought make it better? He didn’t like thinking about sex so clinically. Really, it didn’t matter. Really, there was no rule saying he had to choose one way or another. He didn’t hate living as a man or as a woman. If England loved him regardless . . . why not both?

France opened his eyes, lids heavy as he sailed away from the bliss of orgasm. England cast around for something to wipe his hand off with, then settled for using his tongue and bent down to kiss France clean, as well. France smoothed England’s hair back, off his forehead. Though England looked undeniably sexy right now, he always thought his lover looked sexiest right after he finished, when his cheeks were still red and his eyes were still unfocused and he was without his self-criticism; he was only feeling, then, only unbridled lust and love. Pure, in an impure sort of way.

France put his hands on England’s hips, gently urging him to his side. “Your turn, mon amour,” he murmured, and England rolled them over without hesitation. Fitting his lips around England’s cock, France couldn’t help but be reminded of the very first time they did this. Barely teenagers, England a gawky bundle of rutting hormones, coating France’s tongue before either of them knew what was happening. France got his revenge soon after, though. They always got back at each other . . .

 _“Mmmmmfuck.”_ As moan bled into curse, England clenched his teeth. His hips quivered, and France massaged his thighs, willingly swallowing down all that England gave. A fair trade. England untangled his fingers from France’s hair and instead cupped his face, smiling lazily. There was the look, the beautiful honesty of _feeling_ without thinking. France kissed him, both nations tasting themselves on the other’s lips, and mumbled, “Je t’aime, Angleterre.”

England was rarely the big spoon—because his natural sleeping position had always been curled up like a kitten, a common thing France had noticed in small nations—but tonight he stayed on his back and let France use his chest as a pillow. Different, but not bad. France’s fingertips traced England’s ribs; England pressed a kiss to the top of his head, which turned out to be a lot easier to do when he didn’t have to look anyone in the potentially judgmental eye. He felt France smile against his chest, and that gave him courage to whisper, “I love you, too, dear heart.”

France couldn’t remember the last time England had called him _dear heart_ after only one glass of wine. A wee miracle. Such acceptance, kindness, love . . . France found himself almost wanting to cry. But England’s arms were around him, even as he drifted off to sleep, and in this pocket of tea-scented warmth, France was safe even from happy tears. He still didn’t know exactly what he was, but that was alright.

He had a feeling there’d be plenty of time to figure it out.

 

 

 

_The End._


End file.
